


The French Are Glad to Die For Love

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Burlesque, Chocolate body shots, Dancing, Debauchery, Drinking, First Kiss, First Meetings, Kissing, Licking, M/M, Mild Language, Nipple Licking, Nudity, Undressing, dj pidge, party brunch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 12:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: It's one of the most coveted brunch spots in all of NYC, but how Shiro had let himself be convinced to attend this rather clandestine affair is beyond him. But Matt had tickets, a "special contact" and promises of an experience unlike any other Shiro had ever had. How could he say no?





	The French Are Glad to Die For Love

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had this experience a few weeks ago and all I could think about was writing Sheith in this setting and just having an absolute blast writing a fic based upon it all. Now as you read you're going to come across Allura and a song probably well known to many of you, and [ this is the version of it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZILsHowUjpQ). 
> 
> And should you feel so inclined, you can find me over on [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/ByMidnightFlame) where I will also be posting a full playlist for this fic. Because what's a party without a set, right? Enjoy!

“Well, it’s a balmy. . .”

“Thirty-six degrees, Shiro, but I promise you - you’re about to get a whole lot warmer,” Matt cuts in, his grin full-on cheeky and maybe just a tad shameless. 

At least, Shiro thinks he sees the hints of future regrets dive-bombing off the cliff of Reason and right into the sea of No-Fucks-About-To-Be-Given in the depths of that grin. For a moment, he reconsiders his current situation: brunch. That’s what was told to him when Matt texted him two weeks ago, complete with that winking emoji with its tongue flopping out. A brunch that is, and here he mentally air-quotes his best friend, ‘going to be a _real_ good time.’ Beyond that, Matt had no further details. There is only an address (sent twenty-four hours in advance) and a confirmation (sent upon receipt of payment) on his phone showing that they had one high-top table reserved under the last name of Holt. 

“What’s the name of this place again?” Shiro asks, taking a step back as a young woman half his size rocks back on her heels and nearly stumbles over them right into his chest. He steadies her with a brief touch to her shoulder and a smile, his gaze never diverting from Matt. 

“Voluptas.”

Matt never took his eyes off the girl. With a sigh that slides into the place an eye-roll should have occupied, Shiro looks at the front of the building again. To the right of the supposed entrance (he still isn’t sure they’re at the correct address), there’s a hair salon with bright pink walls and a chalkboard sign placed out front stating that a basic wash-and-cut starts at the ultra-low cost of a hundred dollars even. Towards the corner of the block, the ubiquitous Starbucks sits, patron of the commercialized indie scene. People spill in and out of its doors with the same frequency as shots poured over last-call countertops, and Shiro begins to think that sitting down with an Americano and a warm croissant wouldn’t be such a bad compromise to standing in the ass-biting cold of a New York City winter morning. As if sensing his thoughts, Matt kicks him in the shin lightly and grins at him. Shiro smiles back briefly and tucks his hands further into his trench coat’s pockets.

So much for thoughts of a thinly veiled retreat. 

Shiro resigns himself to waiting, weight shifting over his feet and his gaze set to wandering once again. There’s a large frosted glass wall to his left, positioned just next to the hair salon, with the word _Lilia’s_ cut out of it like a sliver of reality stepping out of a fever dream. Lilia’s. It’s got only two letters in common with _Voluptas_. He exhales and turns his gaze to the street where a cab driver honks remorselessly at a black Chevrolet Cruze dumping its passengers in the middle of the road. Not that it had anywhere else to pull over. Both sides of the street are lined with cars parked bumper-to-bumper, and the only swath of space that could have been considered worth sliding into is now occupied by a handful of bicycles precariously lumped together near a fire hydrant, their back wheels flaring out over the curbside like an urban cheval-de-frise. Sure, the bikes would have gotten the worst end of that deal had the driver decided to comply with pulling over, but who is ever looking to scuff up a paint job? The first young man to tumble out of the car spins toward the cabbie and flicks him off with the same sort of elegance a courtesan would have employed to flip open her lace fan. Seconds later, another man exits, hair as black as primordial space, and smacks the first guy in the chest. He mutters something to him that has them both walking toward the end of the line Shiro has been standing in for the last twenty or so odd minutes (for when one is late to party brunch the doors to paradise are forever closed to him) . 

“No respect for Uber anymore.” 

The first guy. He’s lanky in the way lithe can sometimes be with blue eyes, summer-kissed skin, and the inability to keep his hands from dancing in and out of the pockets of his stonewash jeans, which are that middle-of-nowhere-ocean sort of blue that promises to drown you and all your hopes alike. . .unless you aren’t afraid of the untold depths. The latter part - his hands, not the jeans - may have something to do with the fact that his jacket (Shiro thinks it’s more of that than a bonafide coat, though there does appear to be a sherpa lining to it giving the hint that it’s - questionably - meant for cold-weather wear) has sleeves that only reach to mid-forearm. There are no gloves in sight. Quite possibly for aesthetic reasons, or having been rendered useless by the now-evidently false promise of a quick entry into Voluptas upon arrival. Even so, the need to express himself both verbally and physically, as though his hands have the ability to punctuate in ways his voice cannot, doesn’t seem hindered by the chill air assaulting him. 

“Lance, no cab driver respects Uber.”

“What about Lyft?”

The second guy, still nameless, rolls his eyes. Unlike his companion, he has his hands firmly entrenched in the warmth of his jacket, red leather with an off-center zipper that is only half-way closed and reveals what Shiro recognizes as a limited edition Nike T-shirt from their art-meets-sport collaboration collection. The words _Bronx Bombers_ are printed in black across the chest, but on closer inspection, one would see that the letters themselves are made up of hundreds of small perfectly square pixels, their black color bleeding out of them the further south they travel along their letter-routes until it looks like the very base of the words are being eaten alive by the nothingness of permanent deletion. Not exactly a cheap bit of athletic wear, unless one considers seventy-dollars for a T-shirt cheap. _Fashion_ T-shirt or not. Admittedly, the whole piece _is_ rather intricately detailed and has a rather famous artist-of-the-moment name to go along with the design. Shiro still thinks the price is debatable, though talent also has its price tag, but he’s well aware of the fact that no one wants to hear the lamenting of costs from the guy in the black Burberry trench. 

Guy Number Two hunches his shoulders against both the wind and his companion, focusing his attention on the beginning of the line instead. For a brief moment, Shiro meets his gaze. 

Purple. 

He has purple eyes, this soft blue-grey-violet sort of hue that blends into indigo and is unlike anything Shiro has ever seen in person. He knows he’s not supposed to stare, but he does. Their gazes linger for a moment long enough to call an acknowledged greeting, complete with Guy Number Two looking almost flustered, before eye contact breaks. One moment and it’s like the world is born anew. Broken down, reconfigured, all the knots of Fate undone and his timeline now finally set on the straight course it had always been meant to follow. Seeing the mythical does that to you though, and Shiro feels like he just now realized how unknown the universe had been to him. Because this man has been in it all this time, and yet in all his twenty-eight years, they’ve never once crossed paths. 

Not that he’s about to go calling this love at first sight. He doesn’t believe in the notion, frankly speaking, but he does think there are moments that redefine what you want out of life, and this one just kicked down the door to a potential Shiro had long been avoiding.

“Do you think they’re real?”

Shiro finds himself blinking as he’s called back to the small space they’ve carved out of the line for themselves. Matt is looking at him, bemused. 

Licking at his lips, Shiro glances to the back of the line once more before shifting to face Matt head-on. “I don’t know. Contacts are pretty impressive -”

“What are you talking about?” Matt asks, his brow wrinkled with confusion. 

“What are _you_ talking about?” 

Suspicion oozes from that question.

Matt kicks his head towards a girl, newly arrived with her legs clad in thigh-high black suede boots and an equally black dress wrapped so tight about her figure Shiro is certain no prayers could have slunk in to save her from it. 

“Her. . .” Matt’s voice trails off in the way that makes insinuations out of silence. The same sort of silence that is meant to pull the remainder of a sentence out of someone else’s throat. 

“Nails?”

“God, you’re hopeless.”

It had been a fair question as far as Shiro is concerned. Her nails are long enough to call not-so-concealed weapons, tipped to fine jugular-piercing points and painted a glittering gold. In all fairness to Matt, her cleavage is something men write to gods about. But that is Matt’s interest point, not his. 

“Is this where we argue which one of us is the pot and which the kettle?” Shiro doesn’t bother hiding his grin at those words.

“I hate you.”

“Oh, I kind of got that feeling after you sent me that text message and have now dragged me out here to stand in the bitter cold at a questionable address for some equally questionable affair.”

“It’s a party, Shiro! There’s always something questionable about those.”

“Only the ones you go to.”

“Someone needs to experience life outside of office Christmas parties.”

“We have _very_ nice office parties, Matt.”

A long, memory-soaked sigh escapes from Matt at that, full of fond remembrance. “They really did outdo themselves with the Four Seasons this year. . .”

Shiro snorts a laugh at that only to have his attention immediately pulled to the front of the line by a tiny squeal of excitement. Amidst the commotion, he spots a young man in a bellhop-inspired outfit, forest green with gold trim complete with requisite hat, setting up a concierge desk against the white-washed concrete wall of the neighboring building. Its corner juts out into the sidewalk like an interloper’s comments on what had been a private conversation, several feet of interrupted space and just long enough to set up a check-in counter sheltered from the onslaught of winter wind. Several metal gates are then lined up along the sidewalk, herding the brunch-goers in closer to the buildings. Shiro moves in due accordance with a glance towards the back of the line that has him meeting again, briefly, the myth-inspired gaze of Guy Number Two. 

Maybe sparks flew, or stars aligned, or maybe that was just his gut telling him he had missed out on his chance for an Americano and a croissant. It didn’t detract from the fact that Shiro thinks he might have found a new favorite color. 

With his task of creating order out of potential chaos complete, the bellhop returns to the desk with a tug on his jacket, which admittedly is a bit snug around the waist. A murmur runs through the line, not unlike The Wave at a baseball stadium during game-time lulls. With it, anticipation begins to spike. Previous sparks of laughter and idle chatter have all but died down to a hushed resonance that vibrates through the line and has Shiro feeling like someone put a ticking time bomb in his chest. He shifts his weight back and forth uneasily, refusing obstinately to count down until Matt knocks him in the ribs with his elbow and he stops moving altogether. The murmuring continues to feed the crowd’s growing expectations. 

A door finally opens, the one for Lilia’s. Beyond it, a dark hallway to God knows where. Maybe Hell. Maybe Paradise. Shiro figures it’s all in how one views these sorts of things.

The line begins to move forward. Conversations start to spring forth in earnest once again. Shiro watches the group before them while Matt bounces restlessly on the balls of his feet beside him, the bite of anticipation putting a jitter into his movements. When he sees several in the line pulling out their driver’s licenses, Shiro reaches underneath his coat and into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. The line continues pressing closer to the check-in desk. 

Shiro leans into Matt’s shoulder, which causes his dance of excitement to falter several stuttering steps. “So, what exactly am I supposed to be expecting here?” 

“Brunch followed by a party,” Matt says with the flat tone of a man who believes he has explained something for no less than the tenth time. He hasn’t. Shiro had asked him once in the car ride over, and the reply he had gotten had been decidedly less informative. If one even considers his current reply to be bursting with abundance on the information front. But, it’s better than some clandestine smile that promised a _party brunch_ with the same sort of flippant secrecy one used to launder back-room ‘don’t worry about it’ mafia deals. “It’s going to be a good time, Shiro, so just relax and enjoy the ride!”

He gives a soft grunt at that, complete with an accepting sort of smile, but any further response is negated by the fact that they are next in line. Matt scrambles to pull out his phone. Shiro shakes his head at the last minute preparation. He gets another kick in the shin for that as Matt presents his phone for the invitation barcode to be scanned and their reservation confirmed.

Then comes the unexpected part. 

There’s always an unexpected part, and this one has Shiro questioning the very nature of this so-called _brunch_.

“Once you step inside, you’re going to see a long countertop running the length of the hallway. You must -” And here the bellhop, who has a glistening gold name tag that spells out _Hunk_ in dark cursive letters, stops to stare them both down with pointed emphasis. (Shiro thinks maybe it’s the stripe of white bangs offsetting his otherwise black hair that has the bellhop-turned-concierge labeling him as some fashionable delinquent of the business world. That or Matt’s giddy grin, a far cry from charming, has given him away as the true delinquent of the two.) “- stop by it. Check in with one of the nice young ladies there who will tell you what to do next. Other than that,” Bellhop-Concierge Hunk says, finally letting a smile shine after the required rule-mongering had finished, “have an awesome time up there!”

Shiro offers his thanks while Matt scoots on ahead to catch up with the rest of the line. The hallway is relatively dark, the sunlight muted by the frosted glass front and not a single bulb flickering into existence above. Instead, just opposite the countertop Bellhop Hunk had been talking about, there are small television screens set into the wall, each placed an even four feet apart from one another. They flicker with various images, from cloudless blue skies to up-close-and-personal shots of grass blades waving in the wind. Ocean waves are breaking over rocky shores when Shiro finally steps up to the counter. Matt is already there, flashing his best smile as he leans against the lacquered wood. 

“We _really_ have to turn them over?”

Apparently, the smile isn’t working. That or Matt has lost his touch, and Shiro isn’t about to discount that entirely. 

The woman behind the desk is simply nodding her head, her bangs bobbing against her forehead with every dip forward and shielding her gaze for but a heartbeat. In her hands is a square satchel, no bigger than Shiro’s palm, as vivid green as the grass blades that had been waving across the television screens. The image she presents is decidedly less. . .relaxing. From the line of her shoulders to the neat way her arms are bent before her at a perfect ninety degrees, everything about her speaks of impeccable training. It’s the type of stance that makes a man want to yell _Yes, Sir_ regardless of gender protocols and particularities. That true military sort of uniformity that cared more about doing what you were told rather than flirting with the rules. 

“Turn what over?” Shiro asks, folding his hands over the countertop. His gaze drifts from the young woman, still standing there expecting full compliance, to Matt, who seems to think charm is the balm for every woman’s heart. Even those with a rather specific duty to carry out.

“Your phone,” she says, wiggling the little satchel in her hands. 

“You need our phones?”

“Yes, Shiro, that’s what she said, and I’m still not sure why, but. . .if the lady insists.”

Shiro rolls his eyes this time and starts fishing for his phone in his coat pocket. He produces it a moment later with a lift of his eyebrow, still questioning the whole need for said phone. Everyone’s for that matter. As he glances down the length of the counter, he sees three other women, all dressed like jazz club bartenders just like the one standing before him, with pert little bow-ties, white button-down shirts rolled cleanly to the elbows and a pair of royal purple suspenders holding it all together. They each have a group crowded around them, all in various stages of turning over their phones. Shiro watches intently as one of the phones is slid into a sachet, and the open ends are snapped together with a barely audible _snap!_ , all of it reminding him of Venus flytrap happily fed. 

“You’re allowed to hold onto your phone once they’re secured inside of this. However, you won’t be able to open them again until we come around to deactivate the locks at the end.” 

She’s very concise in her explanation, Shiro decides, and it’s something he appreciates. It still, however, hasn’t answered the very important question of why all of this was deemed necessary for _brunch_.

“I can see how it all works,” he says, smiling in the hopes of seeming less agitated than he actually feels, “but I’m still not certain why we’re doing this.”

The woman offers him a rather tight smile in return. The kind of smile that is practiced so as not to appear nearly as forced as the owner of the mouth making it knows it to be. It ends up looking more like an annoyed smirk than anything remotely reassuring or jovial in nature. “Once everyone is seated inside, the head bitch will explain everything.”

“I’m sorry?”

The words had hit his hearing like a rock cracking against windshield while doing seventy-five down the highway. Even Matt had stopped smiling, though the lift of his eyebrows that had followed seconds later is certainly more devious than Shiro believes warranted for the moment. He waits for the follow-up, ever expectant and hoping on some level that he had simply heard her incorrectly. If not, brunch went from mimosas and Eggs Benedict over floral tablescapes to leather, whips, and Jägerbombs in the blink of an eye.

She merely smiles again, this time with a touch of genuine amusement, and points them towards the end of the hallway where the rest of the crowd is shuffling up a narrow flight of steps. Shiro gets to cue to leave, realizing instinctively that he no longer has the upper hand regarding anything here. Clapping a palm against his shoulder, Matt starts laughing and pushes him towards the unknown. He glances back just in time to see Guy Number Two stepping through the door, looking mildly bewildered while the one called Lance pulls him towards the same young woman who had foiled Shiro in all of his attempts to grab some tangible purchase in this world. 

He begins to wonder if this is how Alice felt, waltzing through a dizzying array of stranger and stranger oddities. This, however, is no dream world. For the second time this morning, Shiro resigns himself to his fate and begins climbing towards the summit of the Unknown.

Which doesn’t remain so unknown for long. 

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he’s handed a postcard-sized announcement, proclaiming Voluptas to be a pansexual paradise, a place where all love is welcomed, all love delighted in, all love open to exploration. It’s a pinwheel array of various shades of purple, but it’s the lavender hue that draws Shiro’s attention the longest and has him glancing over his shoulder as they move toward the main door. No sign of Guy Number Two, though the girl in the prayer-starved black bandage dress is there. She gives him a once-over that Shiro politely ignores. If nothing else, getting waved into the main room by the guy handing out the club’s greeting card becomes the perfect excuse for feigning ignorance. 

The room is smaller than he expected, but hype does a lot to build giants out of expectations. Small, perhaps, but it is an experience. Each corner has a large round booth, capable of seating six or so adults and lined in black leather. Four columns, modeled after the Roman style, run floor to ceiling in the middle of the room. They outline what appears to be a dance floor, save for two long tables stretched over it, each with eight metallic purple chairs, silver legs tucked neatly beneath the seats, and both just far enough apart to stretch an arm out to your backside neighbor. Shiro spots the high-top tables, nestled among the columns with each offering an unobstructed view of the dance floor and its table companions. There are four of them in total, two on each side. The walls are lined with glistening mirrors and a chandelier nests like some opulent crystal-studded hawk over the center of the room. To his left, a long bar sits, its jet-black countertops polished to a high gleam and lavender lights dancing along its borders like ants jacked up on caffeine and war cries. It’s well stocked, he notes, with rows of premium vodka, tequila and champagne bottles all in proper order along its back wall. Over to the right, just beyond the dance floor, a young woman wearing lime green Beats headphones is working over a laptop in what Shiro suspects is a DJ booth.

If nothing else, it’s. . .cozy. 

Matt bumps him on the shoulder with a fist and nods his head towards one of the high-tops. It’s situated close to the bar, just on the other side of the dance floor, and has the number four dancing in purple over its white tablecloth like some psychedelic tarmac marshal. As Shiro glances around the room again, he notices that each table has its own light overhead, each flashing different numbers to help guide the brunch participants to their rightful place. Aside from the numbers, there are carafes of water, orange juice and what appears to be cranberry juice at each table. Nestled in the mix of these is a single complementary bottle of champagne. They make their way over to their designated table, Matt taking the nearside chair and Shiro sitting opposite him. Once they've shrugged off their coats, Shiro rolls up the sleeves of his buttondown and settles in. He has a clear view of the entrance, which he watches with renewed interest.

Something that doesn’t escape Matt’s attention. 

“Incoming, buddy!”

The postcard hits him square in the forehead. Shiro scrunches his nose, much to the delight of Matt, and turns his attention to the resting place of the offending postcard. It’s not the same one they were issued upon entering the room, but appears to be a registrable mailing piece, complete with a faux stamp in the corner. There’s a blank space at the center, where one can put an address (and it’s kindly hinted to list a table number there) as well as a spot in the opposite corner for one’s own address. It’s what is on the back of the card that has Shiro sucking in a small breath and realizing what had had Matt grinning like a man standing at the gates of Paradise.

  


After the last option, there are several blank lines, which Shiro imagines is of the ‘choose your own adventure’ variety. He flicks a glance over at Matt, sets the card down, then proceeds to pour himself a glass of orange juice.

“Brunch, huh?”

Matt is still grinning like a man granted redemption from all his sins, past, present, and future. “Well, it looks like we are going to be eating something.”

Shiro almost chokes on his first swallow, and it’s not the holy white light he’s seeing at the end of the tunnel, but a pair of indigo eyes watching him curiously from the high-top just across from their own. It’s enough to make a man wish for the second coming of Death.

It all becomes a little bit clearer then. 

This isn’t just some a cozy party brunch. This is the perfect den for impending debauchery. It’s been carefully cultivated and curated, and the only thing Shiro can do now is see just how far down the rabbit hole this actually goes. 

Guy Number Two is still looking over at him. Shiro can almost convince himself there’s a touch of concern to the faint curve of his lips, though that’s not dismissing the confusion that’s put this odd little twist to the smile. The worst part of it all is that Shiro still finds it cute.

That’s right. _Cute_. As in heart-fluttering, blush-inducing, ‘I’m way too old for this shit’ sort of cute. Lance has already discarded his coat, exposing a crisp white T-shirt beneath, but Guy Number Two has simply unzipped his jacket completely, no signs of discarding it in sight. His gaze shifts from Lance to Shiro, and all the while his fingers are tracing the stem of his champagne glass with the same sort of absentminded ease that makes thrills out of the simplest of gestures. 

Thrills that breathe their first breath and sputter out of existence as a waitress sets a plate of food before him and asks, politely enough, if there is anything more she can get them. They apparently have far more to offer than just mimosas. Such as entire bottles of your choice liquor for sale. Matt throws in an order for a Bloody Mary, topped off with his best smile. Shiro resists the urge to roll his eyes again, and instead focuses on the plate before him. It’s not your typical brunch fare. Not as far as he can tell. There’s a small hill of microgreens, drizzled with a slightly sweet dark dressing. Beside it, neatly laid strips of roasted red peppers and summer squash rest in an alternating pattern. A piece of flattened chicken, lightly breaded and topped with what he comes to find out is a dollop of pesto, is the crowning piece of the plate. He stares at it mournfully. It’s half the size of his palm, and with all the thickness beaten out of it, is set to be about as filling as a handful of sunflower seeds would be to a Kodiak bear newly out of hibernation. A beautiful presentation, really, but beauty does not fill stomachs.

Nor does it help bolster one against liquor’s inevitable effects.

“You got a bonus last quarter, right?” Matt asks, surveying the room.

“Just like you did,” Shiro responds. He takes his fork and begins mixing the dressing more evenly through his greens. “Why?”

No answer. And none forthcoming until Shiro glances up and finds Matt grinning at him once more. 

“Then we’re splitting a bottle.”

“Of what?” 

“Whatever you want.”

“The starting price for any of them is three hundred.”

“Which is why bonuses are important.”

“They sell for fifty at the liquor store, Matt.”

A dismissive flick of a wrist before Matt picks up his own fork. “A good time has no price tag, Shiro!”

He gives a short huff at that. The consequences usually dictated whether a good time had a price tag or not, but there’s no way you can accurately predict those. The attempts are about as useless as a compass in deep space. 

Another glance around the room shows him that every seat had been filled for today’s event. Including the ones along the bartop. All space had been utilized as efficiently as possible, and while the room felt crowded, thanks in part to the energy buzzing throughout it, Shiro doesn't feel hemmed in by it. Which he finds a bit amazing considering a New York street often carried ten-times the volume of this room at any given moment and could feel down-right stifling. 

Overall, though, the meal passes in relative peace. There are occasional barks of laughter, the chinking of glasses, and every so often a rowdy cry as a bottle of liquor is brought out to a table. Occasionally Guy Number Two glances his way, and Shiro lets his gaze linger a second or two longer than the policies of pure politeness would deem necessary. It always seems to earn him this small twist of a smirk over Guy Number Two’s lips, which is almost always followed by a scowl as Lance throws some remark his way. Shiro can sympathize. In the fifteen minutes since brunch had commenced, he has thwarted several attempts at pirating his vegetables, one non-repeatable comment over what Shiro should write for his blank statement on the postcard, and has unsuccessfully kept Matt from turning his orange juice into a mimosa finally into pure champagne. 

As cleared plates start to appear on the tables, the mini-army of waiters and waitresses stream out from the back kitchen like the well-polished background line of the Russian ballet. They spin around the tables to collect utensils and plates, making off with more orders for mixed drinks in the process. As vital to the overall storytelling but no more powerful in presence than the backdrop itself. When the last of the dishes are cleared, the lights begin to dim, and all conversations drop into silence. 

“I would like to thank you all for coming out here this morning.”

The voice seems to float out of the far right corner, an apparition of sound. 

“We here at Voluptas are rather excited to entertain you today, and in that, perhaps get a little entertainment ourselves!”

A spotlight kicks on, and standing there, just before the DJ booth is a tall man, dressed from head to toe like a ringmaster, his costume made of sky blue rather than the traditional showman’s red. The top hat remains black, however, and between the demarcation of day and night, black to blue, a bright orange mustache sits like the first rays of dawn bursting over the horizon. “Some of you may recognize me from your previous romps here, but for you newbies, I am the sponsor of this event, Coran, and yes, I am a rather gorgeous man.”

Several whoops arise from the audience, at which Coran takes a small bow. As a catcall pierces the air, he pulls at the tip of his mustache, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Yes, I do get that a lot, thank you, but sadly I’m not here to play with all you fine folk. I’m only here to introduce you to your beautiful host for this morning. Some of you may recognize her from our evening shows, so let me tell you, we are _quite_ fortunate this moonlit goddess has decided to grace us all this morning. And now, without further ado, ladies, gentlemen, or whatever it is your freaky selves want to be called in these next few hours, maybe I present to you the ever lovely, Allura!”

The lights cut out immediately, throwing the whole room into darkness. Shiro blinks against it and is spared trying to find his inner feline-fu when the spotlight sparks on. Standing in the middle of the dance floor is a tall young woman with Coran’s top hat sitting atop sparkling white hair. The sparkling, he figures out once his eyes have had a chance to readjust, is due to thin strands of silver woven into the locks. Her lips, dusted silvery pink, have the same starlit effect over them, which gives her smile just a touch of heavenly amusement; her eyes are lined in kohl with diamond crystals placed in an even line sweeping from the outer corner toward her temple. Every minute movement she makes sends light dancing in the air around her. 

Purple backlighting flares to life around the outer perimeters of the room. Breaths are rather audibly sucked in. And Allura stands there, soaking it all in, letting the anticipation build, beat by rapidly increasing beat. Across from him, he hears Matt exhale a soft _damn_ , which has him stifling a chuckle. 

She takes a step forward, surveying the crowd. Around her wrists are cuffs made of thin silver-wire interlacing to create a pattern that looks as tenuous as it does tenacious in its existence, all of it accenting the silver painted over her nails. Encasing her body is a black satin teddy, sweetheart neckline, small silver stars woven into its body that glimmer like newly forged hopes beneath the lights. Another step forward, this time with a pronounced clack of boot heel against floor. They’re knee-high, laced-up tight in that Victorian style that always adds a little class to any amount of crass. Fishnet tights work their way up to her hips, disappearing beneath the sheen of satin and starlight. 

Allura is a galaxy-turned-flesh who never forgot her celestial heritage.

A swing of her head to the left, another survey of the room, her smile still sitting pretty, and then she’s bringing a microphone to her lips.

“Good morning, deviants, devils and revelers alike.”

Her voice has a melodic quality to it, commanding yet gentle, with just the faint hint of an accent. Shiro catches the look Matt tosses at him and sees him for what he now is: a man already lost to the siren’s call. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to their host.

“As Coran has already so kindly told you, I am Allura. And I -” She pauses there, throwing a glance over the crowd, her blue eyes flashing with mischief. “- am your head bitch for the morning. That’s right, I am your H.B.C.” She gestures to the front of her microphone, which has those very letters emblazoned upon it in glittery-pink letters. “That means what I say goes. So, if I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to twerk it like Earth’s salvation depended upon it, you will twerk your little hearts out. And if I catch any of you acting out of line. . .” Another pause. Another pretty little smirk. Then a shrug. “Well, I do like a bad boy. . .or girl. Don’t I, Pidge?”

She turns to the DJ then with a flourish of her arm.

“You will all be enjoying some fantastic tunes today, courtesy of our dear Pidge, though some of you may know her as DJ Astropsych. And as cute as you may all find her, I assure you, she does have a bite. A very lovely and painful bite, so exercise due caution.”

To punctuate that point, Pidge clacks her teeth at the crowd, earning a laugh from Allura.

“Gods, I love you, darling!” she exclaims. “Now! Onto business, everyone. As you may have realized, we have locked up your phones. And for a very good reason!” 

At some point, a stool had been dragged out onto the dance floor, the same metallic purple as the chairs, and it’s this that Allura now seats herself on. She crosses her legs, left over right, with all the dignity and delicacy of Juilliard’s finest graduates, and starts swinging the left with the slow practiced ease of Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’. 

“You see, this isn’t your typical brunch, and if anyone brought their grandmother here, I do hope you know how to apologize. Profusely and wholeheartedly. Voluptas is not for the faint of heart. We do get a bit rowdy in here. You may lose some of your clothes in the process. You may end up kissing someone, or several someones. You may even take one of them home today.” At this, she pops up a little straighter and throws a hand over her mouth, now shaped into a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. Seconds later, it all dissolves into a giggle as the crowd starts whistling at her. “Yes, we are here to have a good time, and I am here to guide you all through it! I do not, however, need everyone in the world knowing that I will be, and I highly doubt any of you would love your bare asses getting paddled plastered all over social media either. So, no phones. No cameras. Just memories and whatever fortuitous connections you make here today, got it?”

More whistling. More hollering. Shiro downs the rest of his champagne, the one with a just splash of orange juice. Across from him, Lance looks to be as entranced as Matt. Guy Number Two seems a little less enthused. Their eyes meet yet again, and Shiro shrugs with a subtle kick of his head towards Matt. That appears to amuse Guy Number Two, who starts shaking his head with the barest play of a smile then lifts his champagne glass to his lips. But not without a small nod of it towards Shiro in a gesture of cheers first. 

That may have been the tipping point. Shiro feels his cheeks flushing and tries to tell himself it’s the liquor and not the beginning stumble of steps that will have him falling into something most hearts have trouble pulling themselves out of. 

“Now, in case you haven’t noticed,” Allura says with a smile, sweet in all the ways _head bitch_ would not imply (more cotton candy than whips and chains), “we have some rather fine bartenders just waiting to tickle your taste buds with their concoctions. They, unlike Pidge here, don’t typically bite, but a few of their drinks do.”

Lance lets out a whoop, which Matt echoes, and Shiro is left watching as some sort of rival male dance-off kickstarts by way of several quickly shared glances that escalates into each of them with a champagne bottle in hand, lofted like a war banner above their heads. It starts an echoing of calls across the room, and it ends with Allura clacking a heel against the floor once more.

“My, my, it seems we have a rather vocal crowd here today.” A pause, complete with a glance between each high top table. “But a little noise isn’t always such a bad thing.”

When Shiro catches sight of Guy Number Two again, it’s just in time to see him sink in his seat, a hand clamped down over his mouth. There’s a threat brewing in his gaze, which Shiro notes is, thankfully, fixed on Lance and not him. He gets it though. 

They’re not even drunk, and already the bastardization of the male mating ritual has begun. 

“Let’s get this party going, shall we?” Allura says, slipping off the stool and throwing a glance around the room once more to raucous cheers.

The music starts, and it’s not at all what Shiro would have called a party-starting anthem. Rather, it’s a bit like promising the world a fireworks show, and instead of lighting up the night sky, you start by handing out sparklers. A bit more personal, a little more. . . _intimate_. The song is familiar enough, set to a slower rhythm, and speaks more of vintage jazz than modern club-hoppers with each note that hits the air. 

“ _Baby, can’t you see, I’m calling_ ,” she croons. Her hips sway in rhythm, knees bending deep, back arching as she leans forward. “ _A guy like you should wear a warning_.”

She moves across the floor, step after step, each deliberately placed with a swing of hip, as she continues to belt out the song. At one point she stops to wrap an arm around one guy, hand splayed across his chest, and slides herself down the back of his chair with enough sinuous curve that any a cobra would call copyright infringement. She pops back up with a wink, sashays over to the opposite table, and crowns a martini-sipping blond with her top hat. 

By the time she makes her way to Matt, Shiro doesn’t know whether to be impressed by her talents or prepare himself for the inevitable secondhand embarrassment. 

Pressing an index finger into Matt’s chest, Allura tips her head back, “ _And I love what you do. Don’t you know that you’re toxic?_

She holds that last note for a moment. Matt looks smitten. . .which certainly doesn’t stop him from placing his hands over his chest and mimicking his heart beating out of it. It's then that Shiro feels about ready to slide down into the bowels beneath their table, but instead, he settles for pouring himself another glass of champagne, half of which he promptly drinks down without remorse.

In the time it had taken him to manage that, Allura had already sauntered her way to the opposite high top and is now serenading Lance, who is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like _Girl, I’d drink your poison any day_ with a smile that doesn’t realize the word ‘shame’ exists in the dictionary. At that moment, Shiro locks eyes with Guy Number Two, and in some measure of camaraderie over embarrassing table partners, they both tip their glasses toward each other and consume the rest of their drinks in one fell swoop. Upon finishing, Guy Number Two is back to smiling again, a small but very decidedly _there_ smile, having seemingly forgotten Lance, who is now staring rather forlornly at Allura, for she has already moved on to the bar to top off her song. 

The crowd roars. More champagne bottles are popped. Someone tosses a bra in the direction of the bar.

“Thank you,” Allura calls out, taking a deep bow. She draws in a few breaths, flashing her smile as she moves back to the DJ booth. With a neat little twirl, she spins on her heel to face the room once more. “Now. . .how many of you here are Voluptas virgins?”

Hands shoot up into the air, students overeager for attention, including Matt. Shiro raises his with a touch of reluctance, then a bit more boldly when he looks across the dance floor and sees that Guy Number Two is having his hand pulled into the air by Lance. Their eyes don’t meet, but Shiro doesn’t need for that to happen. All it would take is a simple glimpse, and he can seal his fate as a guy who didn’t make a regular habit of debauchery dens. 

Not that it is stopping him from sitting here, participant still.

“Fantastic!” Allura exclaims. “Well, as happy as I am to be your first -” Several whistles pierce the air, with Allura taking a moment to acknowledge them with a short nod of her head in all directions. “- I think you all need to get a little more intimate with one another instead.”

She wiggles her fingers towards the bar, full on enticement with just a touch of _gimme gimme_. A moment later, a waitress appears carrying a silver tray with several crystal goblets filled with dark chocolate. Allura takes the tray and sets it on the stool, but not before dipping a finger into the center one and licking the tip clean. 

“Perfect!” 

From somewhere in the crowd a rather strained _oh damn_ cuts across the silence brought on by rapt attention, and immediately the room fills with laughter. Allura teases them all with a grin in response, then begins a slow meander around the room. Like an erotic game of duck-duck-goose, she moves from one table to anoher, fingers sliding along shoulders until she’s sitting on a lap, caressing a cheek, ruffling hair, and after each prolonged spell of attention, she sends the recipient of it up to the front of the dance floor. She slips around Shiro, then rocks back on her heels and turns the full force of her stare on him. 

“You know, I’ve been watching you. . .” she says, her words gilded with coyness. Dancing her fingers up his forearm, she eventually comes to slide her index finger under his chin and carefully directs his gaze toward the others standing on the dance floor. “Go ahead and take your place up there, good-looking, because I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Shiro feels the shake of his head coming on, but Allura has already left him. Across the table, Matt is glaring at him with all the ferocity _don’t fuck this up for me_ can carry. The desire to shake his head dies a quick, remorseless death, and a sigh takes him instead. He pushes out of his seat and goes to take his place in yet another line. 

Or line-up. Because that’s what it’s starting to look like. Mug shot. Executioner’s bullet. The idea of _good_ rarely works its way into line-ups like these, though there is generally some sense of schadenfreude accompanying such events. There’s a crowd for a reason, and human barbarism never really died. It just got channeled into things like The Bachelor and Survivor. 

His attention wanders back to Allura, who is now tugging Guy Number Two out of his leather jacket to the chant of _Take It Off!_ rising around the room. From his view, Shiro can see the flush crawling its way over his cheeks, and it occurs to him for the second time this morning that the man is terribly cute.

It takes another moment of prodding, complete with Lance slaughtering some semblance of dignity to get Guy Number Two to the front, but eventually, he arrives, with cheeks as red as a heart thrown bleeding onto a sleeve. He takes up next to Shiro, giving him a faint smile, and looks like he wants to say something only to seal his lips tighter and fix his stare on Allura like a hawk critical of the wind. She’s making her way back to them all, counting them with a single finger slicing through the air. Then, a grin spills over her star-dusted lips. 

“Now that we have our virgins, let’s begin, shall we?”

As she starts down the line, Shiro begins to realize what is happening. With each person she passes, she taps them on the shoulder and has them turn, until two are standing face-to-face, paired efficiently off. And this. . .this is going to leave him with Guy Number Two. His heart starts racing, drowning out the sound of the crowd until Allura arrives and cuts into the sound of inebriated madness with a too-sweet, “Introduce yourselves properly!”, before sauntering back towards her tray.

He stands there, spinning slowly on his heel as instructed, and tries to smile at Guy Number Two.

“I’m. . .” Nothing apparently. No name follows that, though there’s a gaze expectantly on his. Shiro licks at the corner of his mouth and extends his hand. “My friends call me Shiro.”

Guy Number Two stares down at the proffered hand. It’s a moment, almost heartbreakingly long, before he takes it. “Keith.”

He has a name. Shiro exhales suddenly, surprising himself with the breath he had held. A fully recognized smile follows moments later. 

“Looks like a bit of a rough time over there,” Shiro says, kicking his head towards Keith’s table. 

“It’s nothing more than the usual with him. He’s. . .always this stupid.” Keith says, then quickly corrects himself. “Almost always.”

That gets a laugh out of Shiro, and with it, all the tension he had shored up in his shoulders escapes with the sound. Not a balloon deflated, but the long-awaited wave finally crashing against the shores and bringing with it water teeming with life. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

And that earns the smallest of smiles from Keith. And yes, he’s just that fucking cute up close and personal. 

“I see you have gotten a bit acquainted. Lovely on you all for that!” Allura says, genuine satisfaction adding to the enthusiasm of her words. “You will now have two tasks before you. For this, one of you must strip off your shirts. And yes, you did leave all notions of modesty at the front door, so off you go!”

Shiro feels as though someone had dumped ice water into his veins. He attempts to smile at Keith, knowing full well it’s strained, but as he opens his mouth to ask which role would he prefer, Keith is already pulling off his shirt. He tucks it into the back of his jeans and offers Shiro a shrug. 

“Less hassle this way.”

The smile pulling at his mouth suddenly relaxes, and now it’s Shiro who is blushing. “No, I get it.”

Keith folds his arms over his chest and stares with barely concealed curiosity down the rest of the line. It takes Shiro a moment to follow his gaze. After all, the whole thing had been fairly. . .deceptive. The outfit. Keith’s. What had painted the image of a slim yet trim figure completely masked the cut of muscle underneath. But he looks only long enough to stay in the realm of polite before glancing over at the other couples. Allura is now making her way down the line, stopping to paint chocolate onto the lips of the one person still fully clothed. When she gets to Shiro, she beckons him to step forward.

“Purse your lips and don’t lick it off.”

That’s a command, not a request, and Shiro complies without even the lift of an eyebrow to protest. He figures it’s the least he can do for having been rescued from that first step to nakedness in front of a crowd well on its way to piss drunk. A thought to comfort at least, though he knows it carries no promises on future demands. 

The chocolate is still warm, smelling sweet and enticing, and reminding him that brunch had only managed to whet the edge of his appetite. With a swiveling motion of her hand, Allura instructs him wordlessly to turn back to Keith. It’s the barely stifled laughter that almost breaks Shiro’s carefully and stoically held together form. Keith shakes his head back and forth like he could dislodge the urge as easily as one swatted away a hornet, but like a hornet, laughter proves it has a sting all its own. Keith barely contains the sound of it by smiling behind his hand instead. It’s the awkward contortion of his lips, that sudden spark of amusement in Keith’s eyes that nearly undoes Shiro’s control. 

“You know what the best thing about chocolate sauce is?” Allura asks. She waits a single humming-bird’s beat before answering. “Licking it off. Or in the case of these newly introduced couples, kissing it off.” She spins to face her Voluptas virgin line-up like a drill sergeant inspecting her troops. Giving a nod to each of them, she continues, “We will be timing you. But no rush.”

Keith’s eyes are wide, the amusement drowned by shock. Shiro swallows down his own wave of fear, not for the task of kissing a rather good-looking (and undoubtedly kissable) guy, but because of the uncertainty he sees taking human form before him. 

After a breath, Keith exhales and meets Shiro’s gaze head-on. “Are you okay with this?” 

Shiro nods. He had been instructed not to lick at his lips, which he wants badly to do. Not for the taste of sweet on his tongue, but out of something to do with himself. Something more than just staring there as control threatens to slip from his grasp. A lick of his lips. A nervous tick. 

Keith seems to accept that though. He peers around Shiro’s body once more, drawing Shiro’s gaze with him, to the other couples who have already started, and rather gleefully at that it appears. At the corner of Keith’s mouth, a faint flickering smirk surfaces. Shiro finds he would lick at that too if given the chance, a thought that startles him back into obedience. As Keith turns his attention back to him, Shiro feels his lungs constrict. 

He’s seen blue fire before but never indigo. Keith looks like a man set on a task, and not just with gritty determination but with this instinctual desire to give his all to whatever is standing before him. And when their lips meet, Shiro has to resist the urge to suck in a breath. 

“At least kiss me back,” Keith mutters, his gaze dancing up to greet Shiro’s again. 

Called out. He gives a soft laugh, settles a hand with all the lightness of touch respect can demand, and leans into that kiss. Keith flicks his tongue over Shiro’s lips, clearing a small path over them, before settling into the act of it. Which admittedly is far more chaste than what he imagines the other couples are doing (if crowd response if anything to go by though what trust can really be placed on the reactions from the bacchanalian hoard?). But it tastes sweet with just a touch of champagne, and Shiro thinks it could be easy to get intoxicated on this sort of thing. 

Kissing Keith. 

He takes a step closer. Keith angles his head. Their tongues meet for a moment before Keith pulls back with a small laugh and a flush flourishing like newly-broken dawnlight over his cheeks. He leans in again to lick at the corner of Shiro’s mouth. The act lures a small chuckle from Shiro. 

“Do I get to kiss you back or not?” he asks, perhaps a bit boldly, but there is still fire burning in Keith’s eyes and it makes him think there’s no challenge Keith would ever step away from if he found the cause worthy enough. 

The corner of Keith’s mouth quirks upward. Amusement flickers through indigo flame. “You could try. . .”

“There’s still more chocolate.”

“There is.”

“I don’t think that’s why I want to kiss you though.”

A laugh falls from Keith’s tongue. “Are you always this hopeless?”

At that, Shiro shakes his head, a smile spreading slow and bemused over his lips. For a moment, he simply stares into Keith’s eyes, watching worlds unfold as emotions shift like wind-borne petals over an ever-changing landscape. They’re not just purple; they’re grey and blue, lavender under the right lighting. “No. . .never hopeless,” he breathes out.

Keith snorts another laugh at that, looping an arm around Shiro’s shoulder to give him better leverage. “Can we finish this? I don’t like losing. . .”

All Shiro can do is nod his head and hold Keith’s gaze and wait as his heart pours smoke signals into his chest until Keith finally answers them. He flicks his tongue over Shiro’s lips, slow, deliberate, his eyes still locked on Shiro’s with all the fervent intensity of a man who knows his way home even as a storm rages all around him. Sight restricted to only a few blissful feet before him. With a blink, Shiro realizes he’s the one who has become impossibly lost. Keith swallows that thought down with a press of his lips, firm and guiding, against his own. Shiro slides his hand around Keith’s back and shuts his eyes. 

Because _fuck_.

The music is nothing more than a background of whispers, the cheers of the crowd a distant hum of thunder. Shiro hears his heart though, loud as torrential rain against tin roofs, and he feels the warmth of Keith’s mouth firm against his own, salvaging all the lost bits of him that might have otherwise drowned. When they finally part, with a pop of sound and a final flick of tongue against his lower lip, Keith looks like a man who has just carved victory into the history books. 

“Wonderful!” Allura chimes in, her enthusiasm running through the party-goers.

Keith unhooks his arm from around Shiro’s shoulders and swipes his thumb over the corner of his mouth. He stares out at the crowd, seeing but not seeing, and Shiro doesn’t miss the way his cheeks have gone from pre-dawn flush to the raging red of a summer sunset. He’s fairly certain he can feel the same sort of heat boiling over his own skin. Not that it’s stopped his heart from hammering as the memory of Keith’s kiss lingers over his lips. 

“As you can all see, our couples have done a rather fabulous job of their first task.” Allura waves her arm before them, the Vanna White of debauchery. “And now that we’ve gotten a bit more intimate with one another, shall we move on to the next one?”

Hollers erupt yet again from the crowd, most notably from the far corner, just in Shiro’s sights, where their bellhop-turned-waiter Hunk is now delivering a magnum bottle of Grey Goose. He notes, and not without a small internal wince, that none of the cups receiving their fair share of vodka contain any juice within them. While there may be prayers for lost souls, he wonders if there are any for those who willingly fall into the depths of their own vices.

A topic for another time perhaps. 

His mind is still hazy from the mix of champagne and the lingering heat of Keith’s lips, and it’s a damn difficult thing to try and pull himself back from savoring the latter. Maybe Matt had a point when he said even deserts only remain parched for so long, at some point, even the skies break open over them. 

“Please no. . .”

It’s the softest, most plaintive whisper Shiro has ever heard. He glances down at Keith whose lips are strung tight in disbelief and eyes are locked on what’s happening at the start of their line-up. Shiro blinks out of the feel-good he had been basking in and follows the line Keith’s attention has drawn for him to find one of the waitresses artfully painting over each set of exposed nipples with more of the chocolate sauce. Allura is following in her wake, inspecting each stroke and sharing a laugh with the contestants. While most seem to have a modicum of embarrassment about it, none of it matches the horror that is flooding Keith’s eyes the closer Allura gets to them. He folds and unfolds his arms over his chest, then finally looks up at Shiro.

“No teeth,” he says, his tone steel-plated.

Shiro laughs. It comes out of him like a hiccup, unbidden, unstoppable. He wants to silence himself, but the sound keeps trembling over his tongue until he clamps a hand over his mouth and simply nods at Keith. Taking a deep breath, never once losing track of the way Keith’s eyes narrow at him or how his lips threaten to curl with a smile despite that, Shiro nods again. He drops his hand.

“Got it. No teeth.”

Keith exhales. “This is fucked up.”

“You’re not having fun?” Shiro asks. And maybe there’s a touch of surprise coiled up in dismay springing into that question. 

“No, it’s not that!” Keith responds, glancing up too-quick at Shiro. The flush is still sitting prettily over his cheeks, but there’s iron in his eyes now, making them seem more royal purple than violet flame now. “I just thought if I was going to kiss you, it would at least be on my terms, you know. . .”

Shiro feels his heart drop off the face of the planet he calls himself. Imagines it floating somewhere out in space, completely untethered to him. “You wanted to kiss me?”

“I wanted to get to know you,” Keith corrects him. The flush over his cheeks burns brighter than any red star Shiro has seen. It’s hard not to look away. Maybe the sight will burn itself to the back of his mind, forever seared into memory. 

“We can st-”

“Just look at the two of you!” Allura coos as both she and the waitress slide in front of them. She sets an index finger to Shiro’s chin and tips his head left then right before giving a soft huff of approval. “He cleaned you up well.”

Shiro nearly stumbles over his next breath. Beside him, Keith only pulls himself straighter, staring at the waitress and her chocolate-dipped paintbrush like a leopard staring down a hyena over a fresh kill, wondering which course of action would benefit it best. Stay in for the fight or bolt and hope the rest of the clan doesn’t catch up to him. Allura simply smiles at them both like some benevolent constellated goddess. 

But the stars, Shiro knows, have as little to do with human workings as the dirt beneath their feet, but humans build upon them nonetheless. 

And perhaps. . .perhaps this is a moment he’ll build upon for himself. Or maybe it will leave some part of him in utter ruin. One doesn’t know the future to any such degree, not in matters like this, but Allura stands there before him like she’s heard the whisperings of a world to come and has placed her faith in that for them both. 

As the last stroke of chocolate paints Keith’s chest, she turns to the crowd once more. “Like any good game of chance, at some point you must up the ante. Pidge, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The music starts up again. Behind the DJ booth, the lights splash lime green across the back wall, bouncing it off the mirrors. Pidge stand there with her head bent, hand over her left ear, and a devil’s grin parading over her mouth. Because sometimes, the one thing hell does best is whisper _go_ when all the world insists on a moment to reconsider. Allura spins toward the line-up and gives her rump a little shake for the crowd, escalating the anticipation with a laugh and a toss of her head. Microphone up to her lips, she then glances over her shoulder as the shouts rise near deafening around them. “You know the game. Show them how many licks it’ll take!”

Keith rocks on his heels before finally facing Shiro. Their eyes don’t meet, but there’s grim acceptance putting iron into the line of Keith’s mouth. The blush on his cheeks, however, looks set to burn any sort of regrets. It’s something Shiro finds a bit. . .endearing of all things. He touches Keith lightly on his elbow.

“May I?”

He barely hears the reply, Keith’s words lost to the din of chaotic revelry and Lil Kim’s lyrics edging the crowd towards the sort of euphoria only a viewer of spectacle can achieve. Shiro cants his head and takes a step closer.

“Keith?”

“I said I don’t like losing, didn’t I?” he blurts out, embarrassment sitting high on his cheekbones. “Just. . .make it quick already and win this thing, Shiro.”

Pity. Or solidarity in adversity. Maybe that’s what he feels, but he catches the way Keith licks his lips as he leans over, face hovering before one elegantly painted nipple. Which is full truth. It’s a perfect circle of chocolate, and this close up, Shiro can even make out the brush strokes that created it. It’s an odd bit of admiration. He’ll admit that much. But maybe that’s because his head needs a moment to process the fact that he’s about to suck chocolate from the chest of a man he might have actually fantasied about later that night. 

Admiration doesn’t bring success, however, and he did have his orders.

That first drag of tongue over Keith’s skin earns him an audible hiss from above. He glances upward briefly, noting the intensity setting Keith’s gaze on fire, then sets to his task with a newfound sense of passion. Shiro settles a hand on Keith’s hip, firm but not demanding. It’s a grounding touch, telling Keith he is right here with him, even as the room roars with raucous cheers around them. Another swipe of tongue. Another hiss of sound. The next time Shiro looks above, Keith has his teeth ground together and determination seared into his expression. That’s when he purses his lips around a nipple and sucks gently. Beneath his fingers, Keith trembles. Maybe it’s excitement driving that shiver through him, or that first tumult of desire as it clashes with sensibility. Shiro doesn’t know, but it quickens his pulse and shocks him with the idea that this could be Keith, flat out on his mattress, and instead of teeth grinding together, his name would be piercing the air instead. He laps the last bit of chocolate from the first nipple, and with a supportive smile flashed at Keith, moves in on the second. 

The entirety of it took maybe two minutes at most. Where the other couples in the line-up seem to be enjoying their time in the spotlight, Keith seems content with his victory (as hollow as it really is) and the fact that Shiro offered his apologies with a smile and a towel he had flagged down from one of the waiters. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Keith says after a moment. He’s still wiping at his chest, though he has the grace to shrug over at Shiro with a small, haphazardly crafted sort of smile. Like a scrawling script that on the one hand proves difficult to read yet shows itself uncomprehendingly beautiful. “I’ve had worse first dates.”

Those last words send Shiro’s thoughts triptriptripping through his headspace. The next thing he knows there’s fragments of sentences and busted bits of emotions floating about in zero gravity and all he can do is stare at Keith like he’s the one last thing binding him to life and reason. A small laugh bubbles out of his throat. 

“A date?” Shiro spills out, his face glowing red. He wishes he could blame on it on the liquor, but he hasn’t had enough to make that claim. A lie, maybe. But there’s a certain brand of weight that’s carried by honesty in these moments, and Shiro finds he can’t turn his back on that. “This is a date?”

Keith shrugs and looks out over the room. The corner of his mouth gives this strange little twitch when his gaze finds Lance. When Shiro follows suit, he realizes why - Lance has his hand held out, thumb lifted high in the air, all while he appears to be ‘turning up the charm’ on Allura. She looks to have been caught mid-act, a tray balanced with all the ease of a hummingbird perched on summer’s twig over her right palm while she gestures with the left to make whatever point she needed to in their conversation. Eventually, she gestures with her index finger towards Keith, a readable enough notion, and Lance lets her go with what appears to be a lovelorn sigh and a smile built on tomorrow’s hopes. Keith drops a groan from his lips and turns his attention back to Shiro.

“Considering most first dates involve dinner and drinks of some variety, this could be one.” A nod of his head to punctuate that. But as he talks, this line works its way between his brows, full of sudden self-conscious worry. “Unless that’s not your thing. We can. . .just forget I -”

“I don’t want to forget.”

Keith blinks at him, caught off guard by the way that something surprisingly pleasant ends ruthlessly dethroning doubt. But before Shiro can follow-up on that statement, Allura shoves the tray between them, mischief in her eyes and putting the sparkle to her smile. 

“Quick, clean work. Don’t you two just make quite the pair?”

Shiro clears his throat. Keith eyes the tray with its shot glasses full of vibrant pink liquid. There are strawberries sitting on the rim of each shot, and a miniature banana leaf tucked underneath. 

“Your reward,” Allura says, tipping the tray in Keith’s direction. “I heard you liked to win.”

Swiping one of the shots from the tray, Keith offers Allura a faint glare before turning his attention to the liquor itself. As Shiro takes his winnings, with a more gracious smile, he notes the way Keith plucks off the strawberry first and chews it almost thoughtfully. Letting nothing go to waste. Allura leaves them with a laugh, and as she begins thanking her contestants for their _enthusiasm_ , Shiro guides Keith back to his table. Lance is nowhere to be seen. 

“You lost someone,” Shiro points out, making sure to wave over at Matt. He gets a smirk in return, followed by a tongue licking at the air like someone had hung an invisible popsicle right before him. It’s a whole lot of fanfare for relatively little, but what would friendship be without someone sitting there, reminding you of your most intimate fantasies broadcast before an entire room? Shiro shakes his head at the display, resisting the urge to flick Matt off, and finds Keith staring up at him. 

“Not an important someone,” Keith replies. “He’s a bit like a hunting dog, no matter how far he roams he always finds his way back home. I’m not worried.”

Not worried. Shiro likes the way Keith put that. Because for all the annoyance splashed across his face, it shows the true depths of caring.

“Well, shall we?” Shiro asks. He holds his shot glass out to Keith, and after a moment of deliberation, watches as they congratulation one another on whatever sort of victory (empty? pointless? hilarious? prophetic?) this had been. After that _clink!_ of their glasses, they each tap the bottom of their shot glass on the table then down the liquid with eyes never straying too far from the other. 

As soon as it’s been swallowed, Keith starts scrunching up his face. 

Shiro licks at his lips. “Don’t like it?”

“It tastes like a pink Starburst.”

And it had, this sugary-sweet mix that burst like candied strawberry over the tongue with just a bit of bite going down. 

“So, you don’t like pink starburst?”

“No.”

“What do you like then?”

“The red ones.”

“Cherry?”

“Yeah. . .” 

Keith shifts his weight, rocking from side to side, then stops as he offers his shot glass up to a passing waiter. Not a drop wasted. Shiro plucks the strawberry from his and quickly hands his glass over as well with a mumbled _thank you_

“Cherry, huh?” Shiro reiterates around a swallow. He gives a lift of his brow, chases the act with a half-smile. “Anyone ever call you cherry bomb?”

Another scrunching of Keith’s nose. He doesn’t answer right away, but he sets Shiro with a death-inducing stare of the _oh, please_ variety. “Only a manipulative asshole I once knew. Guy thought he knew me.” Pause. Something dark passes through Keith’s gaze then, putting the steel into the blue-grey of his eyes. Then, it’s gone, simple as that. The smile that takes his mouth next is as cutting as a newly forged dagger, the ones with that fine curve to the blade. More comfortable for the wielder, more damage to the target. Even if the one here is a man buried in a past not quite forgotten. “Turns out he didn’t.”

 _Ah._ Shiro gets it. Because there is only one thing a bomb can ever do: detonate and destroy. But with Keith standing before him right now, after watching him react, after seeing the way midnight skies can burn as bright as day, Shiro knows there is nothing about Keith bound to decimation. He’s the fight that life puts up, and he may very well be the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen.

“Maybe with this chance to get to know you,” Shiro says, heart pounding and thoughts dropping to the floor as gravity finds them once more, “I’ll get to come up with a new nickname for you then.”

Keith laughs. This small, open, honest spark of sound, and as it slides over his tongue, it erases the edges his smile once held. “I think maybe. . .I might like that, Shiro.”


End file.
